50 Harvard Essays

Essays are for reference only. Do NOT copy or imitate anything! 
Plagiarism is severely punished! 
It may seem odd, then, to be writing in such length in praise of a dish one does not 
particularly like. But culinary memories are determined not so much by whether we 
found a food tasty, but by the events, people, and atmospheres of which the food 
serves as a reminder. In my mind, the very making of the salade has always been 
associated with the joyful bustle that accompanied the celebrations for which the 
dish was prepared: the unfolding of the dinner table to its full length, the borrowing 
of chairs from neighbors, the starched white tablecloths, simmering crystal 
wineglasses, polished silverware, white napkins, delicate porcelain plates of three 
different sizes stacked one on top of another, the aroma floating from the kitchen all 
through the apartment, my father taking me on special shopping errands, the 
wonderful dilemma of “what to wear?” and myriad other pleasant deviations from 
the monotony of everyday existence. Though simple in theory, the preparation of 
the salade Olivier was a formidable undertaking which occupied half the morning 
and all but one of the stove burners. At first it was my responsibility to peel the 
boiled potatoes == the one task which did not require the use of a knife or other 
utensil, and one which I performed lovingly, albeit inefficiently. As I sat at the 
kitchen table, my five-year-old fingers covered in several layers of potato skin, my 
mother and I would lead heart-to-heart discussions, whose topics I no longer 
remember, but of which I never tired. 
Eventually, my mother introduced me to the Dicing of the Potatoes, and then to the 
Dicing of the Bologna, the Dicing of the Pickles, the Shelling of the Eggs and the 
Stirring in of the Mayonnaise as well. But there was one stage of the process I found 
especially mesmerizing. It was the Dicing of the Eggs, carried out one hard-boiled 
egg at a time with the help of an egg-cutter. Nothing was more pleasing to the eye 
than the sight of those seven wire-like blades, arranged like prison bars, slicing 
through the smooth, soft ellipsoid. 
Today, we still make the salade Olivier on some formal occasions, and, as before, I 
sometimes participate. And every time I see the eggslicer or smell the pickles, I am 
reminded of our Kiev apartment, of those much-anticipated birthday parties, of the 
joy I felt as I helped my mother cook: of all the things which made my childhood a 
happy one. 
ANALYSIS 
This essay seeks to introduce us to the author via a description of the author’s 
childhood conditions and family experiences as well as experiences from the 
author’s cultural heritage. The salade Olivier, a delicacy in both Ukranian and 
Russian diets, serves as the central organizational motif for this description. 
The essay’s power comes from its amazing descriptive qualities. The reader is given 
a vivid and detailed picture of both the salade and much of the author’s childhood. 
The essay also entices the reader by deliberately omitting a description of the 
salade’s cultural origins until the very end of the text. This technique forces the 

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